


at the end of the world i'll find you

by tonberry



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, mentions of disordered eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberry/pseuds/tonberry
Summary: Yuri's facing his last year as a professional skater, Victor's pushing forty. Somehow, they'll find a way together.





	at the end of the world i'll find you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon compliant fic. While it does not contain infidelity, Victor and Yuuri are no longer together. If that bothers you, please refrain from reading.

The day Victor Nikiforov comes back into his life, it’s raining. Nothing torrential or dramatic, just the kind of persistent drizzle you can try to ignore, but then before you know it you’re soaked through, down to the bone. Yuri jogs home from the rink, the streets of St. Petersburg grey and damp around him. The mist is clammy and cool on his skin, breath puffing out in pale clouds before him. He doesn’t have an umbrella on him, and he’ll be taking another shower as soon as he gets home anyway, so fuck it.

Yuri Plisetsky likes spending money, but only on certain things. Clothes? Yes. The latest technology? Yeah, sure. People he cares about? Perhaps most of all, though they’re few in numbers these days.

His apartment, though? Fuck no. It’s in a convenient location but dismal in appearance; beige and boxy against the skyline, cracked plaster. One bedroom, one bathroom, a small kitchen-living room. It’s adequate – he spends all the time that matters at the rink, anyway. And something about living in a shithole is – comforting, even if almost everything else that reminds him of his childhood is not. It’s his, his alone, and nobody intrudes upon it. So when Yuri arrives home, jogs up five flights of stairs, and he digs in his pocket for his key, looks up—

What he does not expect to see is Victor fucking Nikiforov, sleeping against a suitcase outside his front door.

He’s checked his phone multiple times today. He knows he hasn’t missed any messages. He approaches the door and kicks Victor gently. Well, somewhat. “Oi.”

Victor stirs and blinks, eyes widening as he realises where he is. “Yura.” He stands up, carefully enough that Yuri can’t help but be conscious of how much time has passed, of what skating has done to them both. There’s something in the way Victor favours his left leg that puts Yuri on edge; he can see it, even from a glance. Victor smiles but it’s insincere; his eyes are almost dead, a thin veneer of desperation creeping though. “Thought I’d come and visit.” The lines around his eyes and mouth are deeper, now. His right hand – ring finger conspicuously naked - is clutching at his suitcase handle, and Yuri knows better than anyone how good Victor is at fitting his entire life in a single bag.

He also knows better than to ask straight away. “Let me get to the door, then.” Though Victor’s expression doesn’t change, the relief is palpable. Moving forward as Victor steps aside, he shoves his key in the lock. The stairwell smells musty and fetid, but Victor’s cologne surrounds him, incongruous. It’s been over ten years and he still wears the same fucking flowery cologne. He jostles the key, leaning heavily on the door to give it the final push it needs to lurch inwards. Victor follows him into the darkness, air stale and still, crowding up behind him. He’s taller than Victor, now, and in the split second before he steps forward, Victor’s breath is hot against the nape of his neck.

As Yuri fumbles the switch, harsh lighting floods the room; a spotlight – as if to say, _look at this shit, this is how he lives._ Cramped, disordered, clothes strewn everywhere. There’s no old dishes around, at least, only discarded wrappers – though that’s just due to the fact that recently Yuri’s been mostly surviving on energy bars and supplements. He’s twenty-seven; he doesn’t give a shit anymore. He can’t bring himself to eat anything more substantial most days, and there’s no one around to judge him for it.

Victor says, “wow,” and it’s _that_ tone, the one that makes Yuri want to shake the fakeness out of him. The door swings shut behind them.

“Look,” Yuri narrows his eyes and strides into the room, picking up underwear and shirts and all the other shit he’d left lying around. “I’m not a fucking hotel. Maybe you should have thought about that before showing up unannounced.” Victor doesn’t move from where he stands in front of the door, knuckles still white around the handle of his suitcase. There’s a long pause before he speaks again.

“I didn’t want a hotel.” Yuri knows he means: _I wanted the familiar_. _I wanted you_.

He’s not going to turn Victor away; that’s not in question. Whether this monumental fuckup is on Victor or Yuuri – and, honestly, Yuri’s money would be on both – a childish, deeply buried part of him is glad that Victor’s back. Yuri’s never tried to hide his possessiveness, and with Victor standing in his doorway the embers of it only burn more fiercely.

“You’re on the sofa,” he says, and the relief in Victor’s eyes as he nods is unnerving. He doesn’t even complain. “I need a shower.” Yuri knows his voice is too loud, too irritated, but he’s damp and cold and his stomach is suddenly so tense he feels like he might puke. He turns without waiting for a response.

Yuri sits in the bathtub, arms around his legs and forehead pressed to his knees. It seems like hours pass with nothing but the water from the precariously placed showerhead streaming over him, until the pipes are creaking and it’s running cold. He thinks about skyping Yuuri, or maybe Yuuri will be the one to call him. He raises his head and drags a hand down over the wetness on his face. It’s as he turns off the faucet that Yuri realises he doesn’t even know when it was he became this fucked up halfway fixture in their marriage, for when they were too fucking defective to talk to each other like normal human beings.

When he’s dressed and returns to the living room, Victor’s already sprawled out across the sofa, mouth open and snoring softly. Yuri’s not really surprised; Victor probably hasn’t slept in days. He grabs a blanket from the cupboard in the hallway and brings it over, pausing to finally let himself _look_ , in the way he never would if there was a chance Victor might be looking back. At the ridiculous floppy wave of hair he uses to try and hide his receding hairline; the faint lines around his eyes and mouth; the slightly thicker waist that age and recent months of forced inactivity have left him with. He hasn’t even changed out of his travelling clothes. Yuri draws the blanket up to Victor’s shoulders and steps back, stomach still tight. He ignores the kitchen and shuts himself in his room, phone in hand. There’s nothing from Yuuri, no matter how long he stares at their last unfinished conversation, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

 _Hey,_ he wants to say, _so what the fuck happened?_

Instead, he tosses his phone aside, crawls under the bed covers, and tries to ignore the part of him that wonders if Victor will still be there when he wakes up.

He sleeps badly, and blames Victor’s snoring.

It’s still dark out when Yuri leaves for his run the next morning, air cold against his skin and ground damp beneath his feet. The roads are almost deserted, streetlamps flickering against the approaching dawn. As he’d left, Victor had still been sleeping curled up, cheek pressed against the sofa arm, clutching a cushion tightly against his chest. Yuri hadn’t woken him. Just left him a note on the counter saying ‘ _Unpack your shit’_ , with his spare key resting on top of it.

Training’s a welcome distraction, though Yakov keeps pressing him on ideas for the next season – which, Yuri has already decided, will be his last. He can feel it approaching, in his joints and limbs; in his disappearing flexibility and the twinges in his knee. And Yakov should have retired years ago, obviously only sticking around for Yuri’s sake but obstinately refusing to admit it.

Yuri wants to go out with a bang, not a whimper; something beautiful the world will never forget.

He hasn’t really thought about _after_ , yet. Ice shows, coaching, choreography, commentating… a month prior he’d even been approached about a modelling contract. (The answer to which was _fuck no_ , mostly because their clothes were hideous.) He didn’t think anything would ever compare to the rush of competition, and thinking about it felt like contemplating an imitation of life after death. No wonder Victor seemed such a fucking mess.

By the time Yuri finishes at the dance studio it’s dark outside, but the sky has finally cleared and the moon hangs low between buildings on the horizon. From the street below his apartment building he can just about make out his window; it’s dark within. He frowns, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag, stomach sinking with a disappointment he should have learnt not to feel by now.

When he reaches his front door again, he hesitates before reaching out to try the handle. It’s unlocked. Inside, the only light is coming from the soft glow of the TV screen. It’s some shitty Russian drama and the volume is turned down low, but there’s Victor, hunched over on the sofa, glass held loosely between thumb and forefinger. A bottle’s on the floor beside his feet; he must have left the apartment at some point today, because Yuri knows he didn’t have any alcohol in.

Yuri lets his bag drop with a thump, and Victor’s head jerks up as though he’d never even heard the door. “Yura!”

Yeah, he’s plastered, eyes bright and slow smile spreading across his face. Yuri moves to flop down on the sofa beside him, resting his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift and change. “Did you just spend the day getting shitfaced?” He glances sideways when Victor makes an offended noise.

“I didn’t start until after noon,” Victor says, like the arbitrary jump between am and pm makes all the difference. Yuri assumes that’s only because he didn’t wake up early enough.

Yuri stretches out his legs in front of him. “Congrats.” He takes in Victor’s appearance; tight t-shirt and expensive sweats, but his face is drawn and hair dishevelled. He swallows and tries to remember the last time he saw Victor like this, so raw and exposed. “I guess that qualifies you to be a functional alcoholic.” Victor’s mouth twists into a frown, but he doesn’t argue. “Gimme some.” He holds out his hand, and Victor passes him the bottle. There’s a whole fuckton of reasons why Yuri doesn’t usually drink, but right now he can’t bring himself to care. At least Victor only buys good stuff; it’s smooth down his throat and the warmth spreads through him. For a while there’s nothing but the quiet chatter of commercials on the TV.

Yuri hears himself say, “next season is my last.” It sounds distant, a voice that barely belongs to him. Victor chokes on his mouthful, eyes widening. Yuri’s not sure why he said it. He hasn’t even told Yakov anything definitive yet.

“When did you decide that?” Victor’s staring at him like the world’s ending, like Yuri had just admitted he’s dying or something. In a way, perhaps he is.

He shrugs, and lifts the bottle to his lips again. The warmth feels good, and he shifts slightly to change position, depositing his feet in Victor’s lap, who makes a face. “That’s disgusting, Yura,” he says, pulling off Yuri’s shoes and placing them down beside the sofa. He leaves one hand resting on Yuri’s ankles, though, fingers dry and warm against his skin.

Yuri snorts. “You’ve been in Japan too long.”

It comes out a lot more bitter and accusatory than he intended.

A conflicted expression passes over Victor’s face as he turns back to the TV, voices still a constant background buzz. He’s about to tell Victor to turn it off when it strikes him that, maybe, it’s not on because Victor cares about the plot. “Can you believe,” Victor murmurs, “it actually feels strange to be surrounded by Russian again?”

Yuri frowns. “Well, now you’re home.” _Back where you belong_.

Victor’s grip on his ankles tightens. “Just in time for your final year, it seems.”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised.” Yuri raises an eyebrow. “I’m fucking twenty-seven, Victor.”

“And?” Victor drains his glass and lets his head fall back against the cushions, hair spilling over his eyes as he turns to look at Yuri, gaze strangely speculative. “You’re practically undefeated, Yura, what’s the rush? You really want to—to…”

He knows what Victor means. _You really want to end your life as you know it? Lose the rush of competition? Try to mould yourself into something new without breaking?_

“Yeah,” Yuri says, and doesn’t bother to keep the venom from his voice. “I know my limits. And I like winning, and I’m proud of my reputation.” Victor’s expression darkens, mouth twisting into a frown. It makes Yuri want to stick the knife in a little deeper. “There’s nothing more pathetic than an old has-been desperately trying to cling to glory and ending their career on a string of failures and injury.”

The laugh that escapes Victor is almost inhuman, choked with disbelief and pain. Yuri’s not even sure why he said it, other than to satisfy the petty, vengeful part of him that still thinks Victor deserves it. _An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth_. Victor’s eyes are pale and oddly bright, now. “Yes,” he says, holding out his glass, smiling bitterly as Yuri lifts the bottle to refill it. “What a tragedy that would be. By all means, hurry on to doing all the other things you so clearly love, like tacky shampoo commercials.” _And we’ll both go blind._

“Oi.” It’s hard to reconcile the part of him that takes vicious pleasure in this with the rest that just wants to reach out to Victor, to hold and keep him for his own, to protect him because no one _else_ should be fucking hurting him. Yuri knows Victor would laugh at that thought, too. But the uneven lighting from the TV shadows his face, and he looks more tired than Yuri’s ever seen him. “Just—I know what I need, okay? I won’t keep going like you did. I can’t.”

Victor squeezes his ankle, fingers shifting to lighter touches; not quite a massage, but it feels good on his aching joints. “I know.”

For a while, the only sound is the soft murmuring of the TV, and Yuri feels his eyes drifting shut. Victor must have finally set down his drink because now he can feel both of Victor’s hands, strong and sure on his feet.

“I actually quite enjoyed doing ice shows,” Victor says out of nowhere, and Yuri blinks awake, disoriented. He’d never managed to get to one, despite multiple invitations. “I could skate, usually I was given enough freedom to do whatever I liked, I… it was all I could have hoped for, really.” Yuri hears, _but it still wasn’t enough_. “And now I don’t even have that.” Victor’s thumbs dig sharply into the arches of Yuri’s feet. He hisses, and Victor’s statement finally registers.

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck happened?”

“Mm.” Victor’s reluctance is obvious. “I wanted to forget all that for a bit, actually.”

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “And what, live on my sofa and spend all day watching shitty soaps?”

“I can pay you rent, if you like,” Victor says blithely, “you won’t even know I’m here.”

“Fuck off.” Yuri closes his eyes again. “I don’t need your money.” It’s easier, somehow, half-asleep with eyes shut. “Stay.”

The next thing he’s aware of is daylight flooding the room as he blinks awake and winces at the stiffness in his back and shoulders. _Fuck_. He’s lost all feeling in his leg; Victor’s now half sprawled over him, cheek resting on Yuri’s stomach, lips parted, fingers bunched up in Yuri’s shirt. He has no fucking idea what time it is, but if it’s this light already he’s probably late for his run.

But Yuri hesitates. He should get up and shower, but instead he reaches out, mouth dry, and gently strokes Victor’s hair. It’s soft beneath his fingers, and he freezes guiltily when Victor mutters something in his sleep. His heart skips a beat as his phone starts to ring from where he dropped his bag last night. Shit, he hadn’t even remembered to charge it. Yuri clears his throat and Victor lifts his head, brow furrowed and stubble uneven on his jaw. “Yura,” he says, voice rough, and doesn’t even seem fazed by their proximity. “Why did you let me drink so much?”

“Fuck if I know.” Yuri stares up at the ceiling, trying to ignore Victor’s warmth still pressed up against him. “That’s gonna be Yakov calling to scream down the phone. I should be at the rink by now.”

Victor sits up with some reluctance, rubbing at his temples. “You should probably go.”

Part of Yuri wants Victor to tell him to stay, so he can make sure Victor showers and doesn’t spend all day moping around the apartment. He won’t, though. Even at his lowest, Victor is too familiar with the realities of Yuri’s career for that.

So even though he feels like shit, he goes. Grabs some fresh clothes from his room, a cereal bar from the kitchen, and all he can do is yell at Victor to have a fucking shower and go buy some food as he leaves. He spends the day with a low-grade headache, distracted and frustrated. Yakov wants a decision on his theme for next season, and Yuri still has no fucking idea. Halfway through the day, he realises he has a message from Yuuri.

_Is he with you?_

Usually talking with Yuuri is easy, but this time he stares at the screen blankly for he doesn’t even know how long, and closes the conversation.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks, _he is. And by the way, I’m a shitty friend who wants to fuck your hopefully-ex-husband. Hope you’re doing okay._

Yakov sends him home early with gruff instructions to eat properly and get a full night’s sleep.

On his walk back to the apartment, he pulls out his phone again, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

 _Yes,_ he finally sends, and hesitates for a moment before adding, _I’ll call you later?_

Yuri climbs the stairs to his floor and shoves his phone in his back pocket as he forces the door open. He’s not used to coming back to an apartment that’s not dark and empty; today, warmth and the soft glow of lamps greet him, along with the sound of shitty pop music on the radio and the scent of food in the air. As he drops his bag by the door, Victor looks up from where he stands in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and flour all over his arms. “Yura! You’re back early.”

“Yeah.” He comes to lean on the counter and peer over at whatever it is Victor’s making. “What’re you doing?”

Victor flicks flour at him. “It was supposed to be surprise. Go away.”

“But you never used to be able to cook, I want to watch.” Yuri grins, and at least for now the unexpectedly affectionate feeling that’s settled in his chest lets him put aside thoughts of his uncertain future. Instead, he watches Victor try to push the hair out of his eyes without using his hand, smearing flour over his cheek in the process. He lets his gaze linger on the muscles in Victor’s forearms, on the way his shirt is only buttoned up halfway, like he _wants_ Yuri to look.

“I was going to bake them,” Victor says at last, a finger tapping against his jaw thoughtfully, “but you’re so bony these days perhaps we should fry them.”

“Hey,” Yuri objects, “just ‘cause I’m not getting fat like you are in your old age, doesn’t mean I’m _bony_.” Victor’s gaze drops to Yuri’s waist, and his lips curve.

“You think? I’ve never had such a lumpy pillow.” Yuri just scowls at that, and Victor continues, voice soft. “Really though, Yura, you should eat more. You’ll burn out in a few months at the rate you’re going, a whole year is out of the question.”

“And you should drink less!” Yuri bites back, and the air turns tense in an instant.

Victor’s smile is brittle. “Yes, you’re quite right. Sobriety is not my most appealing option at the moment, thanks, but your concern is noted.”

With a single comment he dissipates Yuri’s anger as quickly as he roused it. Part of Yuri wants to keep arguing, to tell Victor about the way alcohol fucked up his family, but he doesn’t. Not yet. He’s not such a shit he wants to guilt-trip Victor about the one thing that might be helping him cope. Instead, he exhales slowly. “I get that, but it won’t fix anything, Victor.”

Pirozhki start taking shape in Victor’s hands. He works slowly, steadily, and doesn’t look up.

“I can’t skate anymore, Yura.”

For a moment, Yuri can’t breathe. For as long as he can remember, the name Victor Nikiforov has been synonymous with figure skating. Less so these days for the general public, but Victor will always be a legend. People had come from all over the world to see his ice shows, and now all Yuri can feel is regret that he never did.

He swallows, throat tight. “Injury?” He remembers how Victor was favouring his left leg, but he hadn’t really thought—

“Entirely my own fault.” Victor’s voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Too old, too ambitious, too stupid.” He sets a pirozhki down gently to the side. His fingers are trembling. “Yuuri told me four years ago I should quit ice shows, become a coach. Maybe I should have listened.”

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “You think so? You were a shit coach. You didn’t even enjoy it!” That does bring a faint smile to Victor’s face, though his eyes are sad.

“I enjoyed it, I—”

“Yeah, because you wanted to fuck your student.” Victor looks as though he wants to protest, then shrugs, turning his attention back to the dough. “But if you really think you could be happy coaching a random kid, go for it. I’m sure they’ll all be falling over each other for the chance.”

“And what about you?”

He says it so softly, Yuri thinks he misheard. There’s no way—but then Victor looks up, expression almost defiant, and there’s no question about what he meant. Yuri just stares at him, because is he fucking insane? Fifteen years ago, he would have been ecstatic. Now, it’s laughable.

“No,” he says slowly. “Firstly, as I mentioned, you’re a shit coach. Secondly, I _have_ a coach and I don’t want to kick him into an early retirement and even earlier heart attack from shock just for you.”

Victor flushes high on his cheeks, jaw tightening with embarrassment and anger. “It’s your _last year_ , Yura.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, voice cold. “And where have you been? You don’t have any fucking right to it.”

The tension in the air is tangible. How did they always manage to fuck things up so badly? He wants to punch Victor for being so dense and then kiss the blood from his mouth. Instead, he takes a step back. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

Victor, strong hands working the dough mercilessly again, doesn’t reply.

By the time Yuri emerges from the bathroom, the apartment’s flooded with a smell that makes his heart ache, and Victor is gone. All his things remain sitting in the corner of the living room, though, so most likely he’s just gone out drinking. The thought is not particularly comforting. In the kitchen area, the pirozhki are lined up cooling on a rack. Baked after all; Victor knew just what to do to tempt Yuri to stuff himself. Piling three onto a plate, he retreats to his room to wait for an appropriate time to call Yuuri.

Eating the pirozhki is less painful than he’d expected; they don’t taste like his grandfather’s. They’re slightly tough, probably thanks to Victor’s inability to leave the dough alone, and the seasoning is different. He takes a photo and almost uploads it, but at the last moment keeps it to himself. _Victor’s pirozhki_.

It’s not until they’re gone that he realises, _I want to have them again someday_.

He texts Victor a photo of his empty plate, and just adds, _thanks_. The message goes unread, and Yuri hopes Victor will at least be sober enough to stumble back to the apartment later. His phone chimes.

_I’m awake, you can call whenever._

Yuuri.

He moves to sit at his desk and opens his laptop, ignoring all the message notifications as skype loads. It must be ass o’clock in the morning in Japan right now, but Yuuri never seems to mind getting up early; they have that in common. He’s not sure why he hesitates to click call when they’ve talked countless times before, but now it’s different, somehow.

When Yuuri connects, he’s clutching a mug of tea in his hands, hair sticking up like he just rolled out of bed.

“You didn’t have to get up so early, you know.” Yuri leans forward a little, studying the screen. Yuuri still looks laughably young, hardly any older than the day Yuri first met him. He thinks of Victor’s crow’s feet and strategic hair placement, the way everything about him just seems _tired_. That, at least, Yuuri seems to share. There’s a soft smile on his face, but it can’t hide the weariness that emanates from his eyes. “I wasn’t gonna sleep for a while yet anyway.”

Yuuri shrugs. “Today’s an early start. Minami’s already really focused on what he wants to do for the coming season.”

“Keeping busy, then?”

Yuuri takes a sip of tea and fixes him with an unamused stare that says, _you’re really not subtle at all._ “I’m always busy.”

The deflection would be annoying, except he knows Yuuri well enough to know that’s how this goes. He plays along. “I should be, but I still have no fuckin’ idea what I want to do. Yakov’s getting pissed.”

“You’ll figure out something amazing,” Yuuri says, smile wry. “You always do. Minami’s determined to medal above you, next time. He tells me often.”

Yuri snorts, shaking his head. “He’s welcome to try his best, but your student’s gonna be disappointed again this year.”

For a moment it’s almost like old times, and Yuuri’s eyes crinkle into a smile. Then his expression shutters. “How is he?” He drops his gaze to stare into his tea.

“Drunk, probably. Not adapting well to losing his career, but you knew that.”

“He wouldn’t even consider anything else.” Yuuri’s voice is low, and his fingers tighten around the mug. “I suggested—everything. But he just sulked and drank and pushed me away.”

“Yeah, well, now he’s doing that in Russia. It’s what he does. Maybe he’ll figure out what he wants to do with his life and come running back to you.” Saying it out loud makes his throat tighten and stomach drop. The thought of Victor fucking off to Japan again shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. And from the look on Yuuri’s face, it seems it’s not what either of them want.

Yuuri sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” Yuri agrees, looking down at his phone, where Victor has just sent him a stream of ridiculous emoji. “It’s not.”

They talk until Yuuri has to leave for work, and asks to him make sure Victor doesn’t do anything stupid. Yuri thinks, Victor’s almost forty fucking years old and if he’s gonna make idiotic decisions he should live with the consequences.

In the middle of the night he’s woken by Victor crawling into bed beside him, half naked and reeking of alcohol. He slings one arm across Yuri’s chest and mumbles, “Yura,” into his shoulder, breath hot against skin. Yuri should probably kick him out. He doesn’t. Instead, he holds him close and lets Victor fall asleep against him, like Victor is his. In the morning, he slips out of the room quietly before Victor can wake up, and leaves for his run.

After that night, it becomes something of a pattern. Any evening Victor drinks, he inevitably ends up in Yuri’s bed. Sometimes Yuri wakes up with Victor curled up in his arms; other days it’s with Victor’s hard-on pressed up against his ass.

Victor, he thinks, is a fucking coward.

Two weeks later, he arrives home to find Victor sitting on the sofa, leaning forward intently as he watches something on the TV. As Yuri approaches, he realises it’s… him, the ghost of his youth spinning on screen. Piles of DVDs surround Victor as he seemingly works his way through every program Yuri’s ever done. There’s a notepad balanced on his knees and a pen in his hand, and when he glances up at Yuri, there’s life in his eyes again.

“What’s all this?”

Victor presses a finger to his lips, smile cryptic. “Research.”

“Where did you even get all those?” Yuri kicks off his shoes and sits heavily beside him, turning to shove his feet into Victor’s lap, who grabs at the notebook to stop it from falling.

“Yura, I need to write!”

“So, write,” Yuri says, eyes already half closed. He doesn’t even need Victor to touch him. He could just fall asleep right here, feet pressed against the warmth of Victor’s solid thigh. The lights are dim, and the only sound is the faint music that still feels like it’s a part of him, the soundtrack to his life.

“Anyway, I got them from Yakov,” Victor continues, one hand absently stroking Yuri’s foot as he continues to write, notebook balanced over Yuri’s ankles. Yuri wants to ask when the fuck that happened and why Yakov hadn’t mentioned it, but he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

When he wakes, disoriented, he finds Victor leaning over him in darkness, hand still on his shoulder from shaking him gently awake.

“Yura, go to bed, or your back won’t thank you tomorrow.”

Fucking Victor, sounding like he _cares_ so much.

“Fine.” He brushes off Victor’s hand and stands, stretching so his t-shirt rides up. He pretends not to notice the way Victor’s eyes flicker down, lingering. “Are you coming? Or are you not drunk enough yet?”

Victor flinches, and Yuri doesn’t enjoy it as much as he thought he would. Instead of replying, Victor changes the subject.

“And have you eaten? There’s food in the fridge. Eat, then go to bed.”

Yuri folds his arms, something in him balking. “And what are you gonna do in return?”

The air seems to still, and something in Victor’s expression makes Yuri wish he could take it back. His voice is stilted when he replies. “Why, what do you want from me?”

_Nothing. Everything._

“Drink less,” he says, and pushes past Victor to go through to the kitchen. There’s portioned off meals waiting in the refrigerator, and all he has to do is stick one in the microwave. “You don’t need to cook for me.” Yuri knows he sounds childish and ungrateful, that he’s saying nothing but the wrong things this evening. Victor doesn’t seem bothered, though, and follows him through to watch him eat. “It’s good,” Yuri finally says by way of apology, and Victor smiles.

“Yakov told me to pull myself together, too.” He pauses, leaning against the wall, and his smile shifts slightly, eyes tired and melancholy. “He’s always been like a father to me—well, I know you know what I mean.” Yuri swallows, throat suddenly tight. “Gave me a lecture on the time he and Lilia got divorced – he really likes to talk in his old age, doesn’t he?”

And that makes Yuri smile, too, because no matter how often they’ve argued with him, Yakov’s been a constant in their lives for so long they can hardly remember otherwise.

“Also gave me a stern talking to about the fact I’m not the first skater to ruin themselves for love of the ice and certainly won’t be the last.”

Yuri grimaces and sets down his fork. “Shit.”

“That part wasn’t exactly helpful, no. But he meant well, in his way.”

Standing with his face in shadows, brow furrowed, Victor looks _old_ , and it makes Yuri want to shake him. He can imagine how Victor must feel about the state of his career, so viscerally it hurts. That could easily be him someday. But there’s still so much he could _do_ , and Victor has too much talent to waste it drinking and regretting himself to an early grave.

Yuri pushes his plate away. “Are you—” It’s hard to phrase the question, no matter how much he wants to know the answer. Victor tilts his head, questioning. “So are you—are you going to go back?” He tries to keep his tone casual, refuses to read anything into the way Victor’s eyes widen in surprise.

In the silence that follows, Yuri shoves his chair back and stands, taking his plate to the sink.

“Depends what you mean,” Victor says softly. “Go back to skating? I’m working on it, in a way.” When Yuri opens his mouth to protest, Victor continues. “Not physically. Well, there’ll be no more jumps for me, anyway.” Yuri wonders if the pain in his eyes when he talks about it will ever fade. “But if you mean Japan, then no.” Tension bleeds out of Yuri’s shoulders that he hadn’t even been aware of. He refrains from asking why, but it’s clear Victor can see the question in his face. “We weren’t… we weren’t good for each other, Yuri. When things get bad, well, it’s no joke that that’s the real test.” Victor bites his lip, bowing his head so hair covers his eyes.

“He said he tried to help.”

“He did, of course he did.” Victor’s voice is almost breaking. “But when it first happened I hated—I hated being incapacitated, I hated being waited on, I hated the fucking _pity_.” He rubs at his temple, and takes a deep breath. “And I reacted badly. I wanted to be alone, to wallow in my self-pity.” The smile that twists his lips is bitter. “I pushed him away. And Yuuri, well. He’s vicious in his self-defence.”

It’s not entirely a surprise; in that way, perhaps they were too similar – Victor would push away relentlessly, Yuuri would build up walls to protect himself, and shove back.

“It was… a self-destructive cycle.”

Yuri crosses the kitchen and stops just as he passes Victor. It’s easier to speak to the darkened room in front of him. “I am sorry, but… I’m glad you’re here.” He hears Victor’s breath catch behind him, and makes himself take the leap. “And if it means anything, I want you to stay.”

He goes to his room without waiting for a response. A few minutes later, Victor joins him.

\-----

The next day, the last thing he’s expecting to see at the rink is Victor walking in, looking pale and a little unsure, but with a file clutched tightly in both hands. Yakov, seemingly entirely unsurprised, waves him over.

“What’s this?” Yuri arrives at the boards, and impatiently holds his hand out for his skate guards. Yakov hands them over and sniffs. “Vitya has something for you.” He looks up curiously and Victor raises a hand in greeting.

“I… here.” He presses the file and a small mp3 player into Yuri’s hands. “I was going to stay, but—actually, I’m just… you can tell me later, ok? You don’t have to decide now.”

And then he’s gone, making for the exit before Yuri barely has time to react. What the hell?

When Yuri opens the folder, it all falls into place. Victor choreographed a short program for him. He scans the papers, heart thumping in his chest. There’s a scribbled note at the top, _‘I would have wanted to skate the demo for you myself, but, you know. Sorry.’_ But Yuri can see it all in his head as he scans the papers, and it’s fucking mesmerising. He fumbles with the earphones of the mp3 player and puts them in. He’d not expected a pure piano piece from Victor, but it’s frantic and passionate and starkly beautiful.

Yakov’s watching him carefully as he sets down the folder and music, one eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“It’s Victor,” Yuri says. “You know it’s genius. I have to—” He sits on the nearby bench and starts tugging off his skates. “Why did he have to fucking run off, now I’m gonna have to waste time and _leave_ just to try and find him—”

“Go.” Yakov’s leaning on his cane, looking decidedly exasperated. “And _both_ of you be back here in an hour, hear me?”

Then Yuri’s out the door, sprinting down the street, cursing the sky when he realises it’s raining. Even though it doesn’t take him long to catch up to Victor, he’s still soaked through by the time he gets close enough to yell, “Victor!”, and see him turn in response. Victor, the idiot, isn’t wearing a fucking coat either. His shirt is practically see-through, rain dripping off the ends of his hair.

“What did you think?”

Victor looks so vulnerable waiting for the answer, Yuri can’t bring himself so speak anything but the truth. “It’s perfect and you know it.”

The smile that breaks out on Victor’s face is dazzling. “I’m glad. I got to choreograph your first gold-winning SP, so I thought… well, it would mean a lot to me if you’d let me create your last, too.”

Yuri takes a step closer, closing the distance between them, raising his hands to cup the damp skin of Victor’s jaw. “You will stay, won’t you? With me.” Uncertainty grips his heart like a vice, but he refuses to back down. “I don’t know what I’ll do after, either, but… I’d rather find out with you.”

“Yura—” Victor looks up at him, hands reaching out to clutch at the front of Yuri’s shirt. “I’m still not alright. Don’t make any decisions you’ll regret later.”

“You fucker,” Yuri says, and the rain feels like tears on his face. “Don’t say that like I didn’t feel the same way fifteen fucking years ago.”

It’s as though something final in Victor crumbles, and he tugs Yuri down to kiss him, mouth warm on his lips, his cheeks, kissing the rain from his face.

The day Victor Nikiforov agrees to be part of his life, it’s raining. Torrential and dramatic, and inescapable.

 

Art by the wonderful [shortprints](https://shortprints.tumblr.com/)! Posted with permission.

**Author's Note:**

> The piano piece I had in mind is one of my favourites of Chopin's, [Winter Wind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJMIIxm1bGo). Thank you for reading this extremely self-indulgent fic :')


End file.
